Longarm and the Arapaho Hellcats by Tabor Evans

were two sharp pistol cracks. Longarm saw the lapping flames about fifty, maybe sixty yards straight off along the slope. They appeared to angle toward the ground. After the second shot, the wounded man stopped groaning.
    Longarm drew a sharp breath, lowered his rifle. His mind swam. Likely, the rest of the posse was dead. He was one man against nearly twenty.
    What next?
    He thought about the girl, Casey. He should have taken her and tried to slip up and over the ridge to the horses, but his mind had been with the posse. There had been nothing he could do for them, however. And he’d done nothing for the girl. He’d left her tied to the bed.
    There was no going back for her now.
    He considered opening up on the killers whom he could hear thrashing around in the brush ahead of him, talking, snickering, spurs jangling.
    He reconsidered. Getting himself killed wasn’t going to do Casey any good. He had to try to stay alive long enough to pull her away from Drummond’s bunch once and for all.
    Footsteps grew louder. A man’s voice said, “. . . .ver here somewhere. You fellas fan out. We’ll . . .”
    The voice was drowned by the snapping of branches and brush.
    Longarm scuttled back behind the pine, pressed his back to it. He held his Winchester straight up and down between his legs, squeezing the barrel just above the ­forestock with his right hand, thinking it over. If he could take out one, two, maybe three of the gang without getting himself greased, he’d have that fewer to kill later . . .
    He knew he should scuttle on up the ridge, but he rankled at the idea of hightailing it without sending a couple more of these bastards to hell.
    He waited.
    There were soft, crunching foot thumps straight along the slope to the west. He could hear at least two more men moving around downslope from him, between him and the ranch yard.
    His pulse quickened as he continued listening, hearing the killers moving closer, closer . . .
    He doffed his hat, turned his head to the right, pressing his cheek up against the side of the pine. Sap stuck to his cheek. The tang was heavy in his nose. In the corner of his right eye he could see a hatted shadow moving toward him, silhouetted by the moonlight.
    Breath vapor plumed around the man’s head. He was walking toward Longarm, meandering amongst the trees, crouched over a carbine that he aimed straight out from his left hip.
    Longarm looked downslope. Two more inky figures, partly revealed by the moonlight, were milling around amongst the pines. One man on the downslope kicked something and cursed sharply but quietly. Another man to his left laughed.
    They were a cocky ­bunch—­Longarm would give them that.
    Anger was a flame burning just behind his heart. The prospect of whittling the gang down by at least three more caused his heart to skip a beat. He raised the Winchester, curled his index finger through the trigger guard. With his right thumb, he softly, slowly ratcheted the hammer back to full cock.
    The three men were moving toward him. Their footsteps were much louder now. The one moving straight toward him along the shoulder of the slope was probably only about twenty, fifteen feet away.
    Longarm gave him another five seconds and then twisted around the left side of the tree and aimed his rifle straight west. He’d been wrong. The man was only ten feet ­away—­so close that Longarm could smell his sweat. The man stopped, grunted.
    Longarm’s rifle barked loudly, echoing.
    The man screamed. As he flew straight back, he triggered his rifle at the ground.
    At the same time, Longarm racked a fresh round and fired at one of the two figures on the downslope.
    Another scream.
    He fired again, left of his last shot.
    â€œOh,
fuck
!” cried the third man as his own rifle flashed orange. The slug tore into the tree bole inches above Longarm’s head, causing slivers of bark to rain onto